


The Chanukah Spirit

by beetle



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Chanukah, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 11:36:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this inception_kink prompt, "IDEK what sort of scenario, I just want Eames to sing Merry Christmas Darling to a furious and flustered Arthur."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Chanukah Spirit

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Only mine if I get it from Nolan for Giftmas.  
> Notes: Set post-movie, no spoilers.

  
Arthur hates unannounced knocks on his hotel room door. They're almost never good news.  
  
In fact, in his varied experience, unannounced knocks on his door usually involve strangers with guns. Or in that one case . . . a rocket-launcher.  
  
Drawing his own gun, Arthur creeps to the door and looks out the peephole.  
  
No one.  
  
About to chalk it up to some drunk knocking on the wrong door, Arthur is about to go back to his research when the knocking begins again.  
  
This time, standing to the right of the door, gun drawn once more, with the safety decidedly off, he risks making his presence known.  
  
"Who is it?" he calls calmly, like a man who expects nothing horrible, especially not a rocket-launcher.  
  
Again, no answer.  
  
Rather than look through the peephole again, Arthur swears silently. A glance at the floor shows no break in the light coming from the hallway, hence, no shoes directly in front of the door. In fact, whoever it is, is probably doing like Arthur is doing: standing to the right (or left) of the door.  
  
Which means a professional, of some sort. Which means Arthur may be, to put it succinctly, well-fucked.  
  
"Is that you, Eddie?" Moving in front of the door and dropping into a kneel, he braces himself quietly, gun aimed dead-center at the entryway. "Come on in, pal!"  
  
He waits for whoever it is to kick in the door, finger steady on the trigger.  
  
Instead of the door swinging explosively inward, there's only silence. For a moment, anyway. Then a soft, off-key voice raises from outside:  
  
 _”Greeting cards have all been sent  
The Christmas rush is through   
But I still have one wish to make   
A special one for you. . . .”_  
  
Despite the fact that he's never heard this voice singing, he can place it almost immediately. And he can honestly say he'd have preferred the rocket-launcher.  
  
Cool relief washes over him, followed by hot rage. Getting to his feet and safteying the gun—because he's tempted, really and truly—he flings the door open.  
  
Leaning against the opposite wall, holding a very small fir tree, decorated with tinsel, mini-candy canes, and those little globe dealies with the spirals and snowflakes, is Eames. Wearing one of his hideous paisley jackets and yellow-and-blue checkered slacks—grinning like a damned idiot, is Eames.  
  
 _”Merry Christmas, darling  
We're apart, that's true   
But I can dream   
And in my dreams   
I'm Christmasing with you. . . .”_  
  
Arthur groans, holstering his gun and leaning on the door frame. "Ugh, I really,  _really_  would've preferred the rocket-launcher," he tells Eames, who colors.  
  
"Darling, how many times  _must_  I tell you: I had the wrong room! I thought you were someone else!"  
  
"Why are you here, Mr. Eames?"  
  
Eames pouts. "Why, to wish you a Happy Christmas, obviously." That said, he steps forward, barging past Arthur, into the suite, leaving a trail of tinsel and one lone candy cane on the corridor carpet. Sighing, Arthur closes the door and watches Eames look around like he's casing the joint.  
  
"Ah-ha!" he exclaims after a few seconds, darting towards the coffee table. He moves the small glass bowl with the multicolored fake fruit, and plonks the tree down in its place. "Et voila! Instant Christmas spirit, Mr. Marley!"  
  
Arthur rolls his eyes. "And here I thought I'd be Scrooge."  
  
"Hah! Don't kid yourself, dearest.  _Cobb_  is Scrooge. Practically threw me out on my perfectly-shaped arse for knocking on  _his_  door."  
  
"Which is what I'm about to do. Get out, Mr. Eames." Arthur points back toward the door, and Eames pouts again.  
  
"But, darling—"  
  
"I'm not your 'darling.' I'm also Jewish, so your tree has no power here."  
  
Eames's pout turns almost sultry. "Even if I bought you a present with it?"  
  
"'Bought'?" Arthur's eyebrow quirks up, and Eames grins.  
  
"Well,  _brought_ , anyway," he amends, sitting down on the sofa and turning the tree a millimeter to the left. "Perfect."  
  
"Uh-huh." Arthur resists the urge to pull his gun again. "So why're you really here, Eames?"  
  
"I told you, love—"  
  
"If you say Christmas spirit one more time, so help me—"  
  
"—to wish you a Merry Chanukah," Eames continues smoothly, crossing one leg over the other: a man at his leisure in a place where he's definitely not wanted.  
  
"It's  _Happy_  Chanukah, and I don't buy that for one second. What are you really here for?"  
  
Eames's smile gets a little crooked, a little wry.  
  
" _Holidays are joyful  
There's always something new   
But every day's a holiday   
When I'm near to you   
The lights on my tree   
I wish you could see   
I wish it every day. . . ."_  
  
"God, I don't think you hit the right key even once," Arthur says disbelievingly, going to the mini-bar. He rifles through it till he comes up with a mini-bottle of Stolies, cracks it open, and downs the whole thing in one long swallow. When he finishes, he looks over to find Eames staring at him solemnly, looking vaguely perplexed. "What?" Arthur demands, free-throwing the bottle at the wastebasket. Swish.  
  
"Nothing, just . . . there's something terribly melancholy about a man drinking alone, during the Holidays."  
  
Arthur snorts. "Clearly what you don't know about Chanukah could fill the Grand Canyon with enough left over for a very large bucket, Mr. Eames. And sadly, I'm  _not_  alone:  _you're_  here."  
  
"Bringing holiday cheer to the Grinch."  
  
"I thought I was Jacob Marley."  
  
"Let's just say you're a delightful combination of both."  
  
"Whatever, as long as we say 'good-night,' after it. Hint-hint."  
  
Eames tilts his head, studying Arthur for long enough that it's actually a little discomfiting. And it makes Arthur wonder why he hasn't manhandled Eames out the door yet. The man may be a good bit larger, but Arthur's fairly certain he can best Eames in a fight.  
  
Plus, there's always the gun.  
  
"Look, Eames--"  
  
"Call me Freddy, darling. And don't you want your present?"  
  
“I don’t want  _anything_  from—wait, your first name is  _Freddy_?”  
  
Eames chuckles. “Of course it’s not. But it’s as good a name as any. And considerably better than _my_  first.”  
  
“Get.  _Out_.” Arthur enunciates, goaded—probably unintentionally, but still—into another flare of anger. And Eames must sense this, people-reader that he is, because he holds up his hands in surrender, and stands.  
  
“Alright, alright. I know when I’ve worn out my welcome. But can’t I at least give you your present?”  
  
Arthur crosses his arms and does his best to look forbidding. But Eames just makes a ridiculous puppy-face.  
  
“Fine,” Arthur says with another sigh, anger draining away as he realizes he’s more tired than of Eames’s cheer than he is upset at it. “If it’ll get you out of here, sure. Gimme my present.”  
  
Grinning again, Eames saunters over to Arthur, not stopping till they’re only inches apart. Arthur, refusing to be intimidated, doesn’t step back. Even when Eames reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out—  
  
—a green, green sprig of some sort of vaguely familiar plant, all rounded leaves and weird, pearly-white berries.  
  
“Gee. Is that my present? It’s gift-tacular,” Arthur deadpans, and Eames’s grin turns predatory.  
  
“Actually,  _this_  is  _not_  your present.” He holds the plant up high, so it’s dangling between them, and it’s at that moment Arthur recognizes just what Eames is holding.  
  
“Oh, no,” he says, shaking his head and finally backing up. Eames matches him step for step, nodding, arm still held up between them.  
  
“Oh,  _yes_.”  
  
“I will put you in  _traction_.” Arthur’s backward momentum is halted by the suite’s rather large writing desk. Eames drops the mistletoe and stops just shy of pressing his body flush against Arthur’s.  
  
“I don’t think you will. Happy Chanukah, Arthur, darling,” he murmurs softly, darting in to kiss Arthur’s lips, light and quick.  
  
 _There wasn’t even any tongue,_  Arthur notes as Eames pulls away, smiling.  
  
“Well,” he says, scratching his head like a man at a loss for anything else to do. Arthur knows the feeling, since all he can do is gape and stare. “I suppose, good-night, then.”  
  
“Uh,” Arthur says, and Eames’s eyebrows shoot up, as if he expects—or maybe hopes for something else.  
  
When that something isn’t forthcoming, Eames nods once, and turns away. “Have a Happy Chanukah, Arthur.”  
  
“Yeah, Merry Christmas, Eames,” Arthur forces out, half an octave lower than usual. And it must be deliberation, not surprise—Arthur is  _never_  surprised by anything, especially when it comes to Eames—that lets him wait till Eames is almost to the door before calling: “Hey, Eames?”  
  
Eames pauses, looking back with unreadable eyes. Arthur casts around the room—at the walls, the ceiling the floor, and he clears his throat. “You, uh, forgot your mistletoe.”  
  
Eames follows Arthur’s gaze, and he strolls back. “So I did.”  
  
The closer he gets to Arthur, the faster Arthur’s heart beats; the faster his blood seems to rush through his veins.  
  
It’s only when Eames is once more within inches of him and about to bend over that Arthur finds his voice again. “Say . . . did you give Cobb the same present?  
  
Eames blinks. “No, I gave Cobb socks.”  
  
“Ah.” Silence spins out between them, and Arthur clears his throat again. Eames is starting to smile, too. Like he’s figuring something out. “Was there, uh, any more to my present, or it just a Chanukah cock-tease?”  
  
Stepping closer, not stopping until their bodies are pressed together. Eames is starting to get hard, but so, for that matter, is Arthur.  
  
“There’s as much to your present as you’d like there to be,” Eames breathes, leaning in again. This time, Arthur meets him halfway, sealing their mouths together in a kiss that’s not nearly as chaste as the previous one.  
  
Eames cups Arthur’s face in his hands, brushing his thumbs slowly across Arthur’s cheekbones with something like reverence. Arthur puts his hands on Eames’s waist, sliding them around to his ass, kneading and squeezing when Eames moans into his mouth.  
  
“Oh, yes,” he breaks the kiss to say, looking into Arthur’s eyes, his own dark and sparkling. “Tell me if I’m being a bit too forward, but—well, my right jacket pocket.”  
  
Mildly perplexed, Arthur feels around between them, smirking when Eames moans again, laying his head on Arthur’s shoulder and muttering: “That’s not my pocket, love.”  
  
“Sorry,” Arthur says, not sorry at all, and sounding it.  
  
What he finds in Eames’s pocket is a strip of three condoms and a new tube of Astroglide. His eyebrows shoot up in pending disapproval.  
  
“I’m hoping you don’t always carry these around.”  
  
“Why don’t you think of it as a Christmas miracle, my pet?” Eames looks into his eyes again, wearing that stupid puppy-face. But he can’t seem to hold it for longer than a few seconds, slipping naturally into an equally ridiculous leer.  
  
“You’re a dick,” Arthur says, trying to find it in him to be angry. But Eames is looking him in the eye again, fumbling between them to get at Arthur’s fly. Once unbuttoned, Arthur lets out a relieved breath, and Eames navigates his boxers to the hard, hot flesh waiting behind it. He strokes and strips without preamble, then shoves Arthur’s boxers and pants down. They puddle around Arthur’s feet like a promise.  
  
Anger doesn’t even stand a chance, at this moment. “Presumptuous fucker—I should throw you out with blue balls.”  
  
“But you’re not going to.” There’s more hope than certainty in that statement, and Arthur lets Eames stew for nearly a minute before answering.  
  
“No, I’m not.” He hands Eames the condoms, but keeps the lube. “Instead, I think I’ll fuck you into this desk.”  
  
“God . . . please, do.” Eames’s eyes flutter briefly shut. Arthur laughs, humming to himself as Eames separates one condom and unwraps it, tossing the foil away. He then proceeds to roll the damn thing on so slowly—whilst nibbling on Arthur’s sweet-spot, right below his ear—that Arthur has to mentally break down and reassemble the three gun he’s got stashed around the suite to keep from coming.  
  
Then Eames is jacking him off just as slowly as he’d rolled the condom on, his hand exactly the right amount of firm, his teeth applied to Arthur’s earlobe.  
  
“Out of curiosity, darling.” Eames pauses to suck a hickey into Arthur’s neck. “What  _is_  that annoying little ditty you’re humming?”  
  
Arthur leans back to look at Eames like he just landed here. “Okay, seriously? You’ve never heard the Chanukah song?” Eames shakes his head no. “Adam Sandler? ‘Put on your yarmulke, it’s time to celebrate Chanukah. Hope I get a harmonica’ . . . never mind.” He pulls Eames against him and reverses their position, pressing Eames back into the desk.  
  
“Yeah,” Eames agrees huskily, licking his lips. Arthur wonders how he’s never noticed Eames’s lips before now. And it’s his  _calling_  in life to notice  _everything_.  
  
“I really want your mouth on my cock,” he says wistfully, stepping back. Eames watches him with confident, heavy-lidded eyes, bracing his hands on the desk. His erection tents out his awful pants.  
  
“You can have it,” he promises, unbuckling his belt and easing his pants down. He’s not wearing underwear and he’s eight thick, solid inches of absolute,  _uncut_  perfection.  
  
 _Bing!_  goes one of Arthur’s biggest kinks, and he licks his own lips in anticipation. Eames mirrors him, staring at Arthur’s cock like a starving man.  
  
“Fuck—you can have anything you want, darling, only fuck me, first,” he whispers, all humor gone from his eyes, replaced by a look that’s as bright as it is wanton.  
  
Arthur nods, flipping open the cap on the lube and squeezing some onto his fingers before placing the tube on the desk near Eames’s hand.  
  
“Turn around."  
  
Wordlessly, Eames does so, bracing his hands on the desk, and . . . his ass is also every bit as perfect as advertised. Made to be gripped and held and fucked.  
  
“Take off your jacket and shirt.”  
  
Eames does this, as well, revealing a broad, muscular back and arms covered in tattoos—some as hideous as his shirt, others unexpectedly pleasing to the eye.  
  
Helplessly drawn forward, Arthur doesn’t stop till his lips are pressed, in an open-mouthed kiss, against one such tattoo high on Eames’s shoulder. He traces the outline of it with his tongue, and Eames’s breathing hitches loudly.  
  
“ _Sic Transit Gloria,_ " Arthur murmurs, each word punctuated with a kiss, and Eames shivers, bracing himself once more.  
  
“Just a reminder. I find I need one, now and again,” he admits, and Arthur smiles on his shoulder, kissing it again, almost tenderly.  
  
“Why, Mr. Eames . . . you have  _facets_.”  
  
Eames huffs. “I’ll have you know I have  _many_  facets.” Pause. “And all of them want to be fucked, darling, so, if you’d be so kind. . . .”  
  
Not needing to be asked twice, Arthur presses two lubed fingers against Eames’s opening, only for the man to gasp.  
  
“Too fast?” Arthur asks, feeling surprisingly solicitous. “Want me to go slower?”  
  
“No, no, just—it’s cold, is all.”  
  
“Oh. Sorry.” It's a rookie move, one Arthur hasn't made since he was a teenager.  
  
“Touch me, and all is forgiven.”  
  
So Arthur does, gripping Eames’s cock with one hand and pushing against the restraining ring of muscle with the other. It gives slightly, and his fingers slip in just a bit. He begins scissoring his fingers in tiny, patient increments while stroking Eames steadily.  
  
From the breathy moaning, he’s not doing too bad a job.  
  
“Slow and steady, just like that, darling.”  
  
“Been awhile?”  
  
Eames grunts as Arthur’s fingers sink a little deeper. “Since I was topped, anyway.”  
  
Arthur tries not to feel flattered, and fails. “I’ll make it good for you,” he promises, and Eames grunts again.  
  
“You already are.”  
  
There’s really nothing to say to that that wouldn’t sound fawning and green, so Arthur concentrates on stretching Eames, who’s begun pushing back against him. At this point, it’s all but impossible for Arthur to take his eyes off where their bodies are joined.  
  
“God, you really need to relax, so I can be in you  _now_.”  
  
Eames chuckles, and Arthur’s fingers slide deeper still, and he risks intensifying the scissoring motions. Eames’s erection flags just a bit, but his breathing is still fast and thready, like he’s enjoying himself. Barely a minute goes by before he says:  
  
“I’m ready for three.”  
  
 _No, you’re not_. “You sure?”  
  
Eames  _hmms_. “No, but neither of us can wait too much longer, I’m thinking.”  
  
“Point.” Arthur pulls out, and adds his ring finger before pushing into Eames again. This time he slides in without much resistance, though Eames’s still tight as  _fuck_  and spasming around Arthur’s fingers in a way that makes Arthur want, more than anything, to replace those fingers with his cock.  
  
A few more minutes of torturous twisting and stretching, stroking and squeezing, and Eames is fully hard again. Legs spread and face down on the desk, begging Arthur to fuck him.  
  
 _And that_ , Arthur thinks, pulling his fingers out and coating his cock in what seems like half the remaining tube. That  _is good enough to be going on with._  
  
Holding his breath, he lines himself up, and kisses Eames’s shoulder again, one hand coming to rest on his hip for a calming squeeze. “Relax, baby, okay? I’ll go slow,” he murmurs, and Eames nods.  
  
Somewhat reassured, Arthur holds Eames open and begins the hotwettight _fuck_  push inward.  
  
Eames hisses when the tip of Arthur’s cock breaches him, then says Arthur’s name in a voice that makes Arthur’s hips stutter forward in an involuntary thrust.  
  
“Fuck, sorry.”  
  
“Don’t be—don’t stop.”  
  
Arthur nods, even though Eames can’t see it, and continues pushing forward in small, shallow thrusts, each one making Eames moan, groan, hiss, or gasp. He’s  _vocal_ , and each utterance makes Arthur harder—makes it harder for him to not fuck Eames wide open, ready or not.  
  
“T-tell me how I feel, Arthur,” Eames demands in his strained, not-quite-there voice.  
  
“Good . . .  _soooo_  good. Wanna fuck you  _forever . . . Jesus_.”  
  
When he’s as deep as he can go, he pauses, trying to catch his breath. His hand on Eames’s cock slows a bit, and he drags his thumb across the glans. Eames actually wails, now, every muscle bearing down on Arthur, who swears, and nearly comes.  
  
 _So drink your gin-and-tonic-uh, and smoke your marijuanic-uh. . . ._  
  
When he can move without as much fear of coming immediately, like a teenager, he reluctantly pulls out and thrusts back in, and out, and in, neither hard nor soft, but searching, searching—  
  
Eames wails again, prolonged and hoarse, and Arthur smiles, angling himself just so for his next thrust. When it doesn’t happen, Eames looks over his shoulder, his face damp and desperate.  
  
“Dearest . . . now isn’t the time to play hard-to-get. . . .”  
  
“What—what  _is_  your first name, Mr. Eames?” Arthur grits out, trying to catch his breath again, to keep from coming before he’s even had a chance to really  _fuck_  Eames.  
  
It’s a long, long moment before Eames answers, and when he does, it’s a bit short, a bit rueful:  
  
"Kelly.”  
  
He elbows Arthur in the ribs when Arthur snorts out a breathless laugh.  
  
“Bastard.”  
  
Arthur smirks a little, kissing his shoulder. Sic Transit Gloria. "You know,  _Kelly_ , according to the Chanukah Guidelines, I have seven more crazy nights worth of presents coming to me."  
  
Eames clenches his muscles around Arthur, who does some groaning and hissing of his own, putting his hands on Eames’s hips to steady them both.  
  
“What say we take care of the first night before we get a jump start on the next seven?” He pushes back against Arthur  _hard_. “Yeah?”  
  
“ _Yeah_  . . . have a happy, happy, happy, happy Chanukah. Happy Chanukah!” Arthur sings with the very last of his breath and restraint. Then he  _thrusts_.


End file.
